The Spellbound Spirit (The Curious Collectibles Series Book 2) by Lana Hart

Author:Lana Hart [Hart, Lana]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Publisher: Wyrmwood
Published: 2014-05-29T22:00:00+00:00

AS JACK PULLED THE rickety cruiser up the cracked stone driveway to Anita’s old house, Misty stared up at it and mourned.

It was clear that it had once been the idyllic sort of home featured on the covers of magazines like Better Homes & Gardens. It was a sprawling, picturesque two-story with a gray shingled roof that peaked like cat’s ears over each end. There was a large bay window on one side, its panes split by fissures and gaping holes taped over with plastic bags to keep out insects and moisture. On the opposite end, a cobblestone pathway led up to a small patio that preceded the front door.

Misty gazed at the faded stones. They looked like they had once fit perfectly into place, but now they lay crooked and jumbled where roots and weeds had instigated divides between them. Spattered with mud, their once-vibrant hues had lapsed into murky shades of brown and gray, belying the reddish tint of the sandstone that had blazed across their surfaces in a better time.

Jack parked the cruiser right between the rusted metal doors of the two-car garage and shut off the engine. Misty could hear the shrill, rustling cry of cicadas lurking in the overgrown foliage, a mess of branches and creeping vines that seemed to be making a slow march against the house in an effort to overtake it.

“Guess the lawn people haven’t been by in a while,” Jack muttered. He squinted up at the thick gray clouds shielding the sun, then turned to Misty. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she replied, although it wasn’t entirely true. She shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to quantify the feeling of unease running rampant through her guts. “How are we going to get in?”

“Same way you got into Mrs. Clathermont’s, I figured,” Jack said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Better go in from the back, though. I doubt Anita’s neighbors got any less nosy after she died.”

As Misty rose up out of her seat, her gaze fell to a row of dark, thorny stalks jutting up out of the ground. They encircled the front of the vacant house, a parade of twisted bundles so dry and withered that they looked like the slightest touch would snap their limbs in half.

She blinked as the edges of her vision began to blur, only to find that when she focused again, the gnarled collection of twigs had blossomed into a lush arrangement of red rose bushes in full bloom.

A gardener used to come by twice a week to take care of ‘em, Anita whispered, her voice quavering and taut. I used to sit by that big window and look out at ‘em all the time. I was so proud—I’d never had anything that beautiful before. It almost makes me glad I didn’t live to see ‘em like this. She paused, then gave way to a whimper. My babies . . .

Misty felt tears welling in her eyes and brushed them away with the back of her hand. Anita’s heartbreak was so potent that it almost felt like her own.

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